


Thorns And Sweetness

by Euterpein



Series: Ficlets/Event Fills [2]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gardens & Gardening, M/M, Prompt Fill, Roses, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:54:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24953350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euterpein/pseuds/Euterpein
Summary: Crowley discovers that hehatesgrowing roses, but what's a demon to do when his angel smiles at him like that?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ficlets/Event Fills [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1875394
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32
Collections: GO-DIWS Prompt Sprints





	Thorns And Sweetness

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the DIWS prompt sprint with the prompt: "roses."

Crowley had never grown roses. If he had ever grown roses before, or knew pretty anything about growing roses, he probably wouldn’t have tried. But he _had_ to, didn’t he? It was the done thing when one moved to a cosy cottage in the English countryside with one’s hereditary enemy-turned-best friend-turned life partner, wasn’t it? 

As it turned out, growing roses was _shit_. They either withered and died at the tiniest hint that the soil might be the slightest bit too alkaline, or they got so big so bloody quickly he would have to spend precious time with his angel out in the garden hacking them down. Sometimes the same plant. 

Worst of all, no matter what he did they _weren’t afraid of him_. He threatened and pruned and yelled and they still just _smirked_ at him in their stupid plant-y way, pricking at his skin with their thorns whenever he got close. After two years of living in the cottage, he was nearly ready to wash his hands of the whole bloody business and put in something properly demonic instead. Like holly. At least _holly_ could be trusted to know who was in charge. 

He wouldn’t do it, though. He never would.

His angel _loved_ the roses. He would coo over them whenever he came in and out of the house and they would bend towards him like sunflowers seeking the light, silently begging for him to run his fingers over soft petals. When Crowley managed to wrangle anything worthwhile off of them he would bring the angel bouquets of red and pink and yellow; Aziraphale would gasp, delighted, and breathe in the scent of them, praising the care that Crowley had poured into them. Crowley would grumble at that, of course. He would insist that the roses were a challenge to be overcome, wayward children that needed to be brought to heel, and that he would do away with them if he could.

This was a lie, of course. He hated the bloody things, but he would continue growing roses as long as they made the angel smile like that. Even if it meant growing them forever. 


End file.
